Crossroads of Providence
by pathera
Summary: ON HIATUS On their never-ending journey the Winchester brothers run across a case, and a pair of hunters, unlike any other. When the past rears its head it will take all four hunters to save the day, and an unlikely alliance is forged. Can they be saved?
1. Prologue

A/N: Okay. I know, I know that I have other WIPs that should take priority. I should be writing _Renaissance_, I should be working on other things. But _Crossroads of Providence _is my labor of love right now. I've been playing around with this idea for a long, long time, especially since it combines two loves of mine: Supernatural and Harry Potter. I generally hate posting fics before I have a significant amount done, but I'm just too excited to wait any longer for tihs. I hope that this proves to be at least mildly different from other crossovers you might have read, but let me know! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I could claim that I owned Supernatural and Harry Potter. I could also claim that I'm a 500-year old vampire; the claims would be equally ludicrous. In other words, *sigh*, not mine.

Crossroads of Providence

_Prologue_

_The man's eyes are red, the irises completely scarlet surrounding the black pupils. He's only seen red eyes before in the crossroad demons, and this man is no crossroad demon. He doesn't look human—or rather, he looks like something that was at one point human but has now been transformed. His skin is pale white and he is completely bald; his figure is encased in heavy black robes of an archaic fashion. His nostrils are mere slits, giving him a snake-like appearance, and his lips are thin. _

_Snake-man holds a polished piece of wood in his hand, pointing it straight at the heart of the man in front of him. This man is in his late twenties, his hair black and messy, his eyes a bright, vibrant green. On his forehead is a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt; the scar is angry red and blood runs from it. The man trembles, his eyes wide, his lips parted slightly. _

_"I killed you." The man says, his fist clenching. His eyes bore right into those scarlet eyes, seemingly unafraid. _

_Snake-man's lips quirk into a parody of a smirk. "Not well enough, apparently. Thought you could run, did you Potter? Thought you could run and hide and give yourself a new name and that would be enough? You can __**never **__escape me." _

_The man's jaw clenches. "I killed you once, Riddle. I'll kill you again." _

_Snake-man laughs, the sound chilling. "You have no idea what power I possess, little boy." For a moment the red eyes turn completely white, draining of all color. The man's green eyes widen further. The white fades and the red resurfaces. "The end of the world is here, Potter." _

_"The end of the world means the end of you too, Riddle." _

_Snake-man raises the piece of wood in his hand. "No, silly boy. The world is ending and __**I **__and my kind shall rule." Those thin lips quirk upwards again, the expression mocking and cruel. "But first…you die. __**Avada Kedavra**__!" _

_Green light shoots forth from the tip of the piece of wood, hitting the man straight in the chest. A woman's scream fills the air and the snake-man laughs. The man falls backwards, his mouth parted, his eyes wide and vacant. He crumples lifelessly to the ground. _

_____

Sam Winchester bolts upright in his bed, white-knuckled fists clutching the comforter. His eyes are wide in the darkness; he sucks in shaky breaths, fighting back waves of nausea and the pounding in his head. Sweat pours over him and as the cool air hits him he feels cold, a chill running up his spine. As his eyesight adjusts to the darkness he shoots a glance over at the other bed in the motel room; his brother is fast asleep, snoring softly, apparently undisturbed.

He closes his eyes, forcing his muscles to unclench, forcing himself to ease his grip on the comforter, taking in deep breaths. In his mind there is a silent litany of thoughts—_it was just a dream, it was just a dream. _No matter how much it felt like a vision, it was just a dream. Yellow-eyes is _dead _and all of his freaky psychic shit is done and buried with.

He sinks back down against his pillows, drawing the covers up and closing his eyes.

_It was just a dream. Just a dream. _

But there is the little voice in the back of his mind—the one buried beneath the weight of his denial—that whispers _no, it wasn't. It wasn't just a dream. _

When sleep comes again, it is uneasy.

And when the sun rises, he wakes with a vague sense that something is wrong, something is off. He shakes off the intuition and the remnants of the dream, dislodging all memory of the night terror. The only image that remains, lodged in the back of his mind, is that of a scar, shaped like lightning, dripping blood as red as those unnatural eyes.

* * *

So...what do you think?


	2. Chapter One

A/N: Thanks to all of my awesome reviewers! And lurkers, of course, since I know you're out there. Welcome to the first "real" chapter of _Crossroads. _To **vballmania23--**this will be cannon concerning Supernatural, up until a point, and it is not epilogue compliant as far as HP is concerned. So _Deathly Hallows _happened exactly as is written, but they certainly did _not _have that wonderfully happy ending. You'll find out more about what happened there as the story progresses. For reference purposes this chapter is set between _Mystery Spot _and _Jus in Bello. _Unfortunately I can't promise you that all updates will be this fast; I only have one more chapter completed--eek!--and I'm heading off to college in a couple of days, so my life will be hectic for at least a few weeks. Hopefully I'll be able to post but...no promises. Enjoy!

_Chapter One_

The moon is a silver crescent, almost entirely hidden by the trees that are just starting to blossom. The woman walks along the path, eyes fixed on the house only yards away. The forest around her buzzes softly with cicadas, the occasionally owl crying into the night, bullfrogs bellowing every so often. These are the sounds she is accustomed to and she almost doesn't hear them.

But when everything—_everything_—goes silent, she pauses dead in her tracks. The hush is sudden, all of the sounding just cutting off as though someone has hit the mute button on the remote of the universe. She licks her lips, peering nervously into the darkness. Jolting into motion, a sense of fear creeping up her spine, she quickens her pace.

The cold creeps around her. As her breath comes faster in the darkness she realizes that it is tangible in front of her, a cloud of vapor. The cold sinks around her, cutting straight to her core, and her teeth chatter together. She shakes, because the temperature has gone from pleasantly warm to frigid in a matter of seconds.

Her pace quickens even more and she glances around, searching the darkness for some source of the cold. She sees nothing but the trees around her, bathed in the silver light of the moon.

And the feelings set in.

She sucks in a breath that doesn't seem to reach her lungs. She feels cold all over, cold in her soul rather than just body. And there is the disturbing feeling that happiness has been destroyed, that there is no such thing in the world; that only misery and sadness and pain exist. Memories leap into her mind, one after another, the worst memories of her life—her father dying, the fight with her best friend, the death of her dog, the car accident—all the memories that she keeps buried away as too painful. But they are all in her mind, each as new as the day they were formed, each raw and painful.

She tries to run, but she can't. Everything around her is foggy and cold and miserable; she is too disoriented to even realize where the house is, too drained to even force herself to focus. She stops, falling to her knees, wrapping her arms around her. She wants to scream but her vocal chords are paralyzed; tears slip silently down her cheeks.

And there is a terrible _pulling_. As though something inside of her—something she didn't even know existed—is being ripped out of her. It's a pain in her chest, in her mind, in her entire body. Pain like she's never known before. Joy, love, _life_—it's all gone.

She slumps to the ground, eyes staring vacantly up at the sky. She lies in a pool of moonlight, the light painting her silver. Her mouth gapes open. Her muscles twitch, then settle into immobilization.

It will be a long time before anyone finds her. And it's already too late.

_____

"I just don't understand it." The doctor says, glancing at the door nearest to him. Through the glass window a bed can be seen; in it is a young woman, completely comatose, the monitors around her showing completely healthy vital signs. A young man sits at her bedside, holding her unresponsive hand in his own, his head bowed. "There's _nothing _physically wrong with her. Nothing at _all_, at least that we can find, and we've run every test in the book. Yet she is completely comatose. Brain-dead. I would chalk it up to a medical anomaly but…," he hesitates.

"But her case isn't the only one like this," Sam Winchester completes the sentence. "How many other cases are there?"

"Four." The doctor says. "The patients are all of different ages, gender, ethnicity, class, with completely different backgrounds…but their symptoms are all exactly the same. Healthy vitals but completely brain-dead. I've never seen anything like it before in my life. I suppose it could be some kind of virus, or infection, but there would be signs. Elevated white blood cells, other presenting symptoms…." The man sighs. "I just don't know. Does the CDC have any ideas on it?"

Sam looks to his brother, Dean. They are dressed in suits, fake IDs that identify them as members of the CDC clipped to their pockets. Dean clears his throat. "We're looking into the matter, but we haven't formulated any theories at this time."

The doctor nods, looking disappointed but unsurprised. "You'll keep me informed if you discover anything?"

"Of course." Sam manuvers his way towards the exit. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Rosenblaug." With a final nod to the doctor, the two brothers walk towards the exit, emerging into the bright, hot, early

Spring sunlight. They head towards the shiny black 1967 Chevy Impala parked near the entrance of the hospital; inside the confines of the car they shed their suit coats the way a butterfly sheds its cocoon, tossing them into the backseat. Dean pulls the tie over his head and tosses it into the back seat as well, while Sam merely loosens his, letting it rest loosely around his neck, like a noose waiting to be pulled.

As Dean starts the car, classic rock pouring from the speakers, Sam stares blindly out his window, his forehead furrowed and his lips pressed into a frown of concentration. The car pulls out onto the road and Dean turns his gaze expectantly towards his brother.

"Well?" He says. Normally that simple word would be all he needs to say; it is the word that unleashes a torrent of half-concocted theories spilling from his brother's mouth. But now there is only silence, and Dean looks at Sam, eyebrows raised. "Any ideas, Sammy?"

"I'm thinking," Sam replies, still staring out the window. There is a moment of quiet, in which Dean nudges the volume of the stereo higher, before Sam turns to face his brother, sighing. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head, Dean. I mean, maybe there's something in Dad's journal but…."

"But we already looked." Dean finishes.

Sam sighs. "Yeah. I mean, the closest thing I can think of is a shtriga, but—."

"But shtrigas usually attack children and they weaken the immune system, which would show up on the medical tests." Dean says, eyes focused on the road. "How in the hell does this thing leave _no _physical sign?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know." He bites his lower lip. "Should we check out the last vic's house?"

Dean flips the turn signal on, moving into the right lane. "Might as well. Although I doubt we'll find anything." He shakes his head. "I don't get it, Sammy. Maybe this _is _just a freak medical thing."

"Five cases of completely healthy people just keeling over, brain-dead? Yeah right. It's not a freak medical thing. _Something _is doing it." He folds his arms. "We just have to figure out what."

_____

"Excuse me, Dr. Rosenblaug?" The middle-aged doctor turns to face the pair approaching him. The woman's strawberry blonde hair is twisted up into an elegant bun; the man's light brown hair is messy, falling into his eyes. They wear white lab coats, with two familiar looking badges clipped to the front.

Rosenblaug raises an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

The man extends a hand. "Hello. I'm Dr. Cole Evans; this is my partner Dr. Molly Black. We're specialists sent over by the CDC to take a look into your patients, and we have some questions for you."

The doctor folds his arms. "The CDC moves faster than I thought then, if it's sending over specialists already. But I answered your friends' questions not even an hour ago."

The pair exchanges confused looks. "Pardon?" The woman says, her head tilted slightly to the side.

"The pair of CDC agents," he explains, "Dr. Bachman and Dr. Turner. They were here not even an hour ago."

Dr. Black's eyes narrow but she nods, her lips curling into a smile. "Ah, yes. Bachman and Turner." She shoots her partner an unreadable look and he gives the tiniest of nods back. "Yes, they're writing up their report as we speak, but Dr. Evans and I would just like to go over the details with you again, just for our own files."

Rosenblaug sighs in resignation but nods. "Of course, ma'am. Anything you need to know."

_____

"Bachman and Turner?" RJ James—formerly under the alias of Cole Evans—says as he slides into the driver's seat of the dark blue 2000 Ford Mustang. "Glad to know that someone else out there is breaking the law and that we're not the only fugitives around."

Jennifer James—abandoning the guise of Molly Black—pulls the ponytail holder from her hair, releasing her hair from its bun and letting it cascade down to her shoulders. "Think they're hunters?" She asks, looking at him.

"Who else would masquerade around as CDC agents, investigating a rash of medical mysteries?"

"Good point." She falls silent for a moment, before looking at him. Her lips part and she hesitates, biting the inside of her cheek. "RJ," she says slowly, "the only thing I can think of that would leave those kind of results…."

"Is a dementor." He says, his voice slightly harsh. His eyes are focused straight-ahead, never leaving the road, but she catches the glimpse of pain. "I know." He takes a deep breath. "But those people weren't just suffering from exposure to a dementor, Jenn. They'd been Kissed. And if it was just one or two who had been Kissed I could believe that it was a lone dementor, or a pack of them. And if there were more case I could believe that it was a pack, but just those five people…."

"Someone's controlling them." Jenn says, her voice even. He nods jerkily and her eyes narrow. "The question then is, who?"

"Here's a better one. Why? It has to be a witch or a wizard, but all of the victims are apparently random muggles. Whoever it is has enough power to control at least one dementor, so why are they just attacking random people?"

"Sounds like a Death Eater."

"Yeah, it does." And with that he falls silent, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he clutches the steering wheel tightly. Jenn looks at him, silent as well. She reaches out a hand, resting it gently on his shoulder. He doesn't look at her, and she can feel the tension in his muscles, the stiff, unrelenting rigidity of his entire body.

"It'll be okay, love. We'll figure it out." She whispers.

Of course, it will be a lot more reassuring if she can find a way to believe it herself.

_____

"Okay," Dean says, shutting the large volume in front of him with a slam. Sam shoots him a glare—most likely because of his blatant mistreatment of a _very _old piece of literature—that he shrugs off. "We've got nothing piled on top of more nothing." He leans back in his chair, tilting it back so that it balances on two legs. He rubs his temples, his eyes closing as he tries to massage away the headache that drums in his head. "Tell me that you have _something_."

The short, poignant silence answers his question, and he groans. "This case is driving me _insane_."

Sam sits up on his bed, frowning. "Maybe we missed something." He says.

"Like what, Sammy? We checked out each of the scenes, all of the houses, checked the patients, talked to the doctors…what the hell could we have missed?"

Sam flops back down on the bed, stretching his long legs out and staring straight up at the dingy white ceiling. "We found nothing at the scenes or at the victims' houses," he muses out loud. "No trace of anything physical _or _paranormal what-so-ever."

"This is fantastically helpful, Sammy. I mean really, this kind of thought is brilliant." Dean says sarcastically. Sam lifts his head long enough to shoot his brother a vicious _Shut-up _glare before letting it flop back against the pillow.

"And the patients showed no sign of trauma…." He trails off and Dean straightens, looking at him with interest. Sam props himself up on his elbows, looking at his brother, his expression curious.

"What?" Dean prompts.

"The patients show no signs of trauma _now_. The latest case was comatose for a week before we arrived, enough time for minor injuries to heal. Minor injuries which might not mean anything to a doctor, but might mean everything to us. Something like a scrape or a bruise, which a doctor would brush off as an already established injury, or something sustained from, say, falling to the ground."

Dean's eyes show renewed light and he grins out of the corner of his mouth. "But those little injuries might just be the clue _we _need."

"Exactly." Sam says, his voice triumphant. He pulls out his cell phone and dials a number, pressing another button to put it on speaker phone and then holding the phone out, so that it is between him and his brother. Dean pulls his chair away from the table, moving it closer to the bed and the phone. He sits backwards, propping his arms on the backrest of the chair.

Ringing can be heard, and then a click. "Good afternoon, Mercy Hospital. How may I direct your call?" A female voice says.

"Hello," Sam says pleasantly. "This is Dr. Turner of the CDC. I need to speak to Dr. Rosenblaug, please."

"One moment." Soft music plays and Sam and Dean exchange disgusted looks.

"I can never decide which is worse: hold music or elevator music."

The music clicks off and there is a low chuckle from the phone. "Hold music," Dr. Rosenblaug says, "most assuredly. What can I do for you, Dr. Bachman? Dr. Turner?"

Sam leans closer to the phone. "Sorry to trouble you, Dr. Rosenblaug, but we have just a couple more questions for you."

There is a soft sigh over the phone. "Well, one can't say that the CDC isn't thorough. Should I assume that I'll be getting a call from Dr. Evans and Dr. Black as well?"

Sam's eyes jerk from the phone to Dean's face. Silently Dean mouths the word '_who_'? and Sam's brow furrows. "Pardon?" He says, his voice questioning.

"Dr. Evans and Dr. Black. The two specialists the CDC sent over? They arrived not an hour after you left."

_'Play along_' Dean mouths, and Sam nods. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"It's funny, actually." The doctor says. "They had the same reaction when I mentioned the pair of you, that little 'wait, who?' moment." His voice doesn't sound suspicious, but Sam knows he is treading on thin ice. He forces a little chuckle.

"Short term memory loss comes with the territory. Being around all those hazardous chemicals all the time, you know." Dr. Rosenblaug chuckles along with him. "Actually it's just that our team doesn't often work closely with Dr. Evans and Dr. Black's team. And there's just so many specialists over there we can't remember _all _of their names."

"I understand completely. Now, you had questions?"

"Just one, doctor. When the patients presented did _any _of them have any minor injuries or conditions? Aything out of the usual? Even a bump or a scrape is worth mention."

There is the sound of papers being shuffled. "Emily Lozen—she was the second patient admitted—had a slight bump on the back of her head, most likely from falling to the ground. Some of the others had scrapes or bruises, but…I probably should have mentioned this before, because it _is _unusual." Sam and Dean lean closer, eyes fixed on the phone. "All of the patients presented with a mild case of hypothermia, from which they have all recovered."

"Could hypothermia have caused the brain damage?" Dean asks.

"No." Sam says, at the exact time as the doctor on the phone. The doctor continues. "Hypothermia has been shown to preserve the brain, not damage it. Thus the theory behind cryonics. In cases of hypothermia the body dies before the brain does. Regardless, the hypothermia never progressed past the first stage in our patients. But for hypothermia to present at all is unusual. I would expect it in, say, Miss Bright, who was outside in the forest at night for a period of several hours before she was found. Mr. Ort, however, collapsed on a perfectly sunny afternoon and was found within fifteen minutes. Our assumption was that the hypothermia was a manifestation of shock, which _is _an acceptable theory, but still…."

Sam looks at his brother, his eyes saying _this is it, this is the clue_.

"Thank you, Dr. Rosenblaug," he says. "We'll be in touch."

He clicks a button on the phone and then flips it closed. Dean looks at his brother, raising an eyebrow. "So…," he says, tilting his head to the side. "Two questions, Sammy. One: what causes hypothermia and leaves a person brain dead? And two: who in the hell are Dr. Evans and Dr. Black?"

Sam shrugs. "I know one thing. They sure as hell aren't CDC agents any more than we are."

They look at each other, holding a silent conversation, when the phone rings again. Sam flips it open and answers it.

"Hello? Oh, Dr. Rosenblaug, did you forget something?" He listens to the voice on the other end while Dean watches him curiously. Then he nods, the frown on his face deepening. "Thank you, Dr." He says, and hangs up the phone once more. He lifts his gaze, his expression grime.

"There's a sixth victim, just found."

Dean's hand clenches into a fist. "Then we need to figure out what the hell this thing is, and we need to do it _now_."

* * *

Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: So, this is going to be a really short note, since I'm crazy busy. Sorry that I haven't been able to update recently, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it. The next chapter should be out soon-ish, since things here at college are settling down. Thanks to all of my reviewers (and lurkers) and I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I love it, but I don't own it.

_Chapter Two_

"Find anything, Jenn?" RJ James says, without looking up. He runs a hand over the beige carpet of the bedroom, frowning, then rises to his feet and turns to face is partner. The woman folds her arms and shakes her head.

"Nope. Not a thing," she says, sighing. "I mean, this is definitely where the attack happened, and there are still minor traces of the dementor's presence, but…." As she speaks of the dementor she shivers a little, rubbing her arms. "The dementor is gone, the presence is fading, and there's no sign of whoever is directing the bloody thing."

"Yeah." RJ says, his voice heavy. He turns to the nightstand next to the bed and peers closely at a photograph--a young woman is frozen in a smile, hand raised in a wave, her arm around the waist of a young man. "It doesn't make sense. How are there no signs?"

Jenn shrugs. "Maybe there are signs, and we're just missing them. If we're assuming a Death Eater is involved maybe we'd better do another sweep of the house and check _everything _over again." She walks to the window and pulls the curtains back a fraction, peering out. She stands there for a moment before freezing, her gaze fixed on something outside. RJ looks at her, questioning.

"Jenn?" He asks slowly.

She lets the curtains fall back into place, hiding her, and turns towards him. "There's someone out there with a little too much interest in this house." RJ moves towards the window and peers out. Two men lean against a shiny black car that can only be described as a work of art in vehicular form. Their eyes are fixed on the house and he sees as they notice his presence; their heads turn towards each other and he sees their lips move.

He draws back from the window as the two men begin to walk across the street, making their way towards the house. "They're coming."

"Who do you think they are?" Jenn asks. "They definitely saw us."

"They could be anyone. Cops, the bad guys, even the other two hunters on the case." RJ says, moving farther away from the window. "I think we should probably make our exit right about now."

Jenn tilts her head, a tiny grin forming on her face. "I have a better idea, love. Why jump to conclusions when we can find out who they are?"

____

Dean stands in the middle of the bedroom, a frown etched onto his face. He looks around, as though trying to convince himself of something, before turning to his brother.

"We weren't hallucinating, right? I mean, you saw that guy too?"

Sam looks up from the homemade EMF meter that he holds in his hands and nods. "Like I said, Dean, I saw the woman first and then when we both looked there was a man, standing at that window right there."

"So, were they human, or were they whatever the hell is attacking people?"

Sam shrugs. "I've got a slight EMF reading. Not enough to assume ghost activity, but there was definitely something paranormal in this room." He walks around the room, making a sweep with the EMF meter. Towards one of the corners the meter jumps higher and he pauses. "Dean," he calls over his shoulder.

He walks further into the corner and the needle jumps higher; there is a whisper of cloth and he freezes in place, staring into the corner. Dean walks up behind him, one of his hands resting on the handle of the gun belted at his waist.

"Something's there," Sam says, with a nod towards the corner. For proof he extends the EMF meter, which screeches as it climbs higher.

"Then why are we not being attacked by some ghostie right now?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs and takes a step backwards; the needle plunges lower. When he walks forwards again it goes higher.

"It's definitely in the corner." Dean pulls his gun out, feeling its heavy and comforting weight in his hands.

"Time to go," a male voice says, and Dean snaps the gun up, pointing towards the corner where the voice had come from. With that there are two loud pops, like the sound of a car backfiring. The needle on the EMF meter races upwards and then drops to nothing.

Sam and Dean look at each other, expressions equally confused.

"So…what just happened?"

____

"At least we know that they're hunters and not Death Eaters," Jenn says, sitting on the edge of the motel bed. RJ glares at her.

"We're just damn lucky they didn't decide to shoot things up."

She rolls her eyes. "RJ, why in the name of God would they just start shooting at thin air?"

"They're _hunters_; they know that there are things that can't be seen out there. Their device was even picking up on us!" He pauses. "What the hell was that thing anyway?"

Jenn chuckles. "I think it was a homemade EMF. That's what it looked like anyway. You've got to give them props for resourcefulness."

"Let's just hope that their resourcefulness doesn't get them killed if they tangle with a Death Eater." He says somberly.

Jenn tilts her head to the side. "Best way to assure that they don't get themselves _Avada_'d is to make sure that _we _find our bad guy before they do."

He sighs, flopping down onto the bed next to her. For a moment there is silence as he breathes deeply and she watches him, waiting. Then, "Tonight we go back to the house and we search _everything_."

____

"The ward alarms went off twice, sir." The woman says, her eyes fixed upon the floor. She is a mousy little woman, no more than twenty but with a kind of deep-set tiredness and pain that ages her. Her entire pose is subserviant; her eyes never rise from the floor, her shoulders are slumped, her hair falls into her face, a curtain between her and the world.

"And?" The man says, without looking at her. His voice is full of smug superiority; it is clear as day that he considers the woman as a lesser being when compared to himself.

"Two sets of people entered the house after it had been vacated, sir."

The man looks up from what he is doing. "Two sets? You're sure of that?"

"Yessir." She says. "The first set was a man and a woman, magical. The second was a pair of muggles, both male. The first two Apparated out of the house when the other two entered."

The man's eyes bore into her and she shifts uncomfortably, never glancing up but feeling the weight of his gaze heavy upon her.

"The muggles are of no concern to me or my plans," he says after a moment. "But the witch and wizard…the ritual is almost complete, but I will _not _have it interrupted. The witch and the wizard must be taken care of. Do you understand that, Mary?"

"Yessir."

"You will track them as best you can. When you have their location you will inform me, understood?"

"Yessir."

He pauses. "If you happen to discover the location of the two muggles you will inform me of that as well. Best not to take any chances. Muggles are easier to kill anyway, and I still need three more for the ritual." The woman lingers in front of him, head bowed. "You are dismissed."

She dips into a low bow and hurries from the room, never lifting her gaze. He turns back to the book spread out on the table before him; the thick volume is yellowed with age, the binding cracked, and the writing is in a sprawling, nearly unreadable hand, the ink red as blood. He traces a finger over the page, smiling wickedly.

"Soon," he whispers, the word sliding out of his mouth like a hiss. "Soon."

____

With a sigh Sam closes one large volume of text and pulls another over to him, flipping open the heavy cover. He pauses to rub his temples and then shoots a glare towards the nearest bed, where his brother is laying. Dean is flopped facedown on the bed, snoring lightly. Sam folds his arms, glaring, and then looks at the table. With one hand he grabs an empty fast food soda cup and hurls it at his brother's head. It hits with a satisfying thunk and Dean bolts upright, his hands searching for a weapon that is not present.

"Welcome back to the living, sleeping beauty." Sam says, his voice thick with sarcasm. Dean comes to his senses and gives him a death glare. "Thanks ever so much for helping with the research."

"It's not my fault that you're the Geek-Wonder." Dean says with a yawn, stretching his arms out behind his head. "Got anything yet?"

The look that Sam gives him is all the response he needs and he groans. Sam shakes his head and pushes himself up out of his chair. "I'm going to make a run to the 711 on the corner. Think you can handle researching for the ten minutes it'll take me to get back?"

Dean makes a face at him and tosses him the keys. "Dude, bring me back donuts!" He shouts as Sam walks out the door. His brother shoots him a disgusted look before letting the door slam behind him.

"Donuts!" He shouts at the closed door, sitting up on his bed. He looks over at the stacks of books and groans. "Not a chance," he says, flopping back down and closing his eyes.

____

As Sam takes a sip of his much-needed coffee, slipping into the driver's seat of the car and letting the caffine slide down his throat, he is completely unaware that he is being watched. He hums with pleasure as the hot liquid starts to take its effect; the caffine buzzing through his nerves and rejuvinating him. He starts the car and the engine purrs; the music that he flips on is not the heavy stylings preferred by his brother but something softer and more soothing.

As he pulls out of the parking lot he doesn't see the woman raise her wand; doesn't even realize as the spell subtly hits the car. There are no outward effects and it is as if nothing happened.

When he pulls into the parking space outside of the motel and leaves the music station where it is with a devilish smirk—knowing that his brother will give him that oh-so-disgusted look when he turns the car on again—he takes no notice of the woman standing on the corner, watching him. He never realizes that she doesn't belong there; that she is in fact the same woman standing outside of the 711 only minutes before.

And when he re-enters the motel room he has no idea that he, and his brother, have now been marked.

* * *

MWHAHA! And the plot thickens! What'd you think?


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: _Well hello, and welcome to chapter three! Sorry for the amount of time it took for this chapter to get written and posted! I've been sick and NaNoWriMo is kicking my ass (I'm at least 2000 words behind and probably more than that), and I have school work on top of all of it. When I wrote this chapter I really wasn't happy with it, which is part of the reason why it has taken so long. I wasn't happy with the pacing of it or the characterizations and it wasn't living up to my expectations. But, I let it sit for a while and then looked back over it, made a couple of changes, and I'm satisfied (sort of). Here is where the paths of our favorite brothers and our wizarding couple finally meet! Any mistakes are completely mine, since this un-beta'd, so please excuse them, and let me know when you spot them. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: No...still not mine. Maybe I'll get them for Christmas?

_Chapter Three_

He's in one of his moods. Dust flies from the corners as the rickety house shakes to its very foundations; she can hear him yelling. From the bottom of the stairs she can see the changing, shifting colors through the crack at the bottom of his closed door, and she can hear the sizzle of spells hitting wood. She pauses there at the bottom of the stairs, shaking as she stairs up. More than anything she wants to duck her head and scurry away, but her wand is shuddering in her hand, the tip glowing a soft blue color.

She gulps and forces herself to climb the stairs. At the top she raises and hand and raps her knuckles softly against the door. Inside, complete silence falls. She stands there, shaking harder, waiting.

The door flies open and he is there, wand clenched in his white-knuckled hand, his eyes dark and furious. She flinches and ducks her head, fixing her gaze on the ground. She sinks into a curtsy, holding the position and trying to control her trembling.

"I've warned you about disturbing me." He says. His voice is a growl, the words pushed through gritted teeth. She flinches again.

"I'm sorry, sir." She says, her voice soft. "But you told me I was to inform you of my progress regarding—."

"I will not tolerate your _excuses_!" He shouts and she clamps her lips shut. "You've interrupted vital spell-work, Mary. You _will _be punished." She shivers all over, chill racing up and down her spine. She bites her lower lip to keep a wail from bursting out and nods.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Since you've already disturbed me…what do you want?"

"I located the two muggles who were at the sacrifice's house, sir, and I placed a tracking charm on their automobile. The wards of the house just went off again—the two muggles have returned there."

She peers up through her eyelashes—his expression is less angry now. A grin spreads over his face. "Excellent," he purrs. The grin is vile, all malice and sadistic pleasure. "_Excellent_."

He turns without a word and strides back into the room, slamming the door in her face. She is forgotten and she slinks back down the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest. She rests against the wall, out of sight in the hallway leading to the kitchen. She sags there, letting her head tilt backwards and her hands shake. Her breath is quick and tears gather for a moment in the corners of her eyes. Then she straightens, gathers her composure, and walks towards the kitchen.

She has a job to do.

____

Sam flops down on the couch in the dark living room of the house, his hair falling into his eyes. "I don't get it, Dean." He says. His brother paces the living room, the EMF meter in his hands. "I mean, there's _nothing _here. Not even the EMF traces we found earlier. Definitely nothing that suggests a ghost."

Dean stops, turning to face him, his arms folded. "Then we're missing something, Sammy." He shakes his head, growling low in his throat. "Something has to explain it. We both saw people earlier, heard the voice, heard the crazy sound, saw the EMF…there's got to be something here."

"Then where is it, Dean?" He rolls his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension in his muscles. "We tore this place apart when we were here this afternoon, and the night clearly isn't bringing anything out either." He sighs. "We're at a dead end."

Dean growls again, his expression frustrated.

"Why don't we go back to the motel, grab a couple of hours of sleep, and hit the case again in the morning? We're not getting anything here so…."

Dean sighs. "Fine."

He goes to put the EMF meter in the duffle bag sitting on the coffee table, when it suddenly screeches, the needle racing up to red. Dean shoots a look at Sam, who jumps to his feet, and both men reach into the duffle bag. They pull out their trademark ghost-hunting sawed-off shotguns and look around the room.

"See anything?" Dean mutters, as the needle on the EMF races even higher. Sam turns so that their backs are towards each other.

"No…," he says. A wisp of breath rises into the air in front of him and all the hair on his arms rise. He's suddenly hit by the _cold_. Minutes ago it the air temperature was a pleasant room temperature; not it's chilly and getting colder by the second. "Dean, the cold—"

"I feel it. It's freakin' freezing in here. Ghost?"

Sam shrugs, even though he knows that Dean isn't looking at him and can't see the gesture. "I don't see it—," he cuts off with a gasp, because that's when the feelings start. The cold is wrapping around him, sinking into his bones—it's so damn _cold_—but worse than that are the feelings. It starts out slow, subtle. Just negative thoughts swirling up from where they should have been dormant. Then the negativity grows stronger, and it feels like something is being taken, sucked away from him. Happiness, hope, love…they're pulled away as though they don't really exist at all. Jessica's image flashes through his mind—smiling, laughing—and then it is destroyed.

_It's your fault she's dead_, a little voice whispers. And then he's reliving the worst moments of his life. He's seeing Jessica burn above him, her mouth open in a permanent scream. He's seeing his mother burn, his father die, he's seeing Dean fall to the ground—he's seeing himself with black eyes, standing over his brother with a gun in his hand. He's seeing death, destruction, death, death, _death_—.

His vision is fuzzy and the world is spinning around him—he doesn't even realize that his grip on the shotgun has loosened until the gun falls with a clatter to the floor. He hears Dean gasp out "Sammy—," and he tries to turn, but falls to his knees. He bends over, his hands clutching his head, and something is being _ripped _out of him.

For a moment there is a flicker—through his the black spots that dance in front of his eyes he thinks he sees something. A creature, draped in black cloth looking for all the world like a stereotypical grim reaper. But there is a grayish, putrid hand reaching out from beneath the shrouds of black fabric, and the black hood is slipped back and there's no real head at all, just a sucking black mouth that reaches and a rattling, gasping sound and—.

The last thing he hears before he loses consciousness—before he succumbs to the darkness in the edges of his vision—is a man's voice, roaring unfamiliar Latin words.

And the world goes silver before it goes dark.

_____

RJ stands in the middle of the room, his eyes closed, his wand loose in his hand. Jenn touches him lightly on the shoulder, just brushing her fingertips over his shirt, before kneeling next to the two men who are passed out on the floor. The first man is the one with shorter hair; she passes her wand over him, checking to make sure he isn't badly hurt. His eyelids are already beginning to twitch when she goes to check on the second man.

"First one's already starting to come around, RJ," she says softly, looking up. "This one's out cold though, poor guy."

As she says this the first man sits up, groaning in pain. His eyes open and he stares at Jen—for a moment everything is still. Then he gropes for the shotgun next to him. Almost faster than she can believe her fires it at her. There's no pause, no hesitation, just simple instinct in the move.

Her reaction is almost as quick though, and she isn't standing where she was anymore. She dodges out of the way of the blast, and then she and RJ are next to each other, wands pointed at the man as he points his shotgun at them. His eyes narrow and he moves smoothly to his feet. For a fraction of a second his eyes flicker to the man on the floor, and then back to them.

"What did you do to Sam?"

"Nothing." RJ says, staring the man down. "He's unharmed, just unconscious."

The man's eyes narrow further and he stares intently at RJ. "You're the man we saw in the window earlier. And it was your voice we heard before that weird popping sound." His grip on the shotgun tightens. "So who or _what _the hell are you and what are you doing to these people?"

"We're not ghosts or creatures or anything like that." Jenn says. "We're humans, just like you. We're hunters too."

His eyes clear a little but are still wary. "Oh yeah? Prove it."

"When you spoke to Dr. Rosenblaug you used the aliases Bachman and Turner. We used Evans and Black. Good enough for you?"

He lowers the shotgun and they lower their wands. He follows their movements carefully, and then reaches slowly into the duffle bag, pulling out a silver flask. He tosses it at RJ. "Drink that," he orders.

RJ narrows his eyes and unscrews the flask. He sniffs carefully and then eyes the flask. "Holy water?" The man gives a short nod. RJ takes a swig and then passes the flask to Jenn, who copies the action. "Happy now?"

The man shrugs. "I'm satisfied that you're not demons. That's a start. We'll talk about how the fuck you got out of the house without us seeing you later." He goes over to the other man and kneels next to him, checking his pulse. Then he shakes the man lightly. "C'mon Sammy, wake up." He looks at RJ and Jenn. "So, you're Evans and Black…who are you really?"

"I'm Jennifer James. This is my husband, RJ."

"I'm Dean. Winchester. This is my brother, Sam." He shakes his brother again. The man finally begins to stir, a low moan in his throat. His eyes open and he stares up at Dean, his forehead furrowing. Dean grins. "Welcome back, sunshine."

Sam groans. "That _sucked_. What the hell happened?" He sits up and notices RJ and Jenn; his hand moves automatically for the shotgun he dropped earlier. "And who are they?"

"The other hunters on the case," Dean replies. "RJ and Jennifer." He looks at them. "What the hell attacked us? I didn't see a damn thing—just felt cold and…."

"Felt like you'd never be happy again," RJ concludes. Dean nods shortly. "It's called a dementor."

Dean tilts his head. "I've never heard of it."

"You probably wouldn't have." RJ doesn't offer any more explanation than that. Jenn gives him a frown and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Did you kill it?"

"Drove it away. I'm not entirely sure that it's _possible _to kill them."

"You can kill _anything _if you try hard enough." Dean says, and now it is Sam's turn to roll his eyes. Sam heaves himself into a standing position, surprised to find that his limbs are still a little shaky. Jenn reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bar of chocolate, which she offers to him.

"Here. It helps counter the effects of a dementor." He takes the chocolate from her tentatively, smiling.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. It's a trick one of our old professors taught us."

"You had a professor teach you how to counter the effects of paranormal creatures? Must've been some college." Jenn throws RJ a look and nods.

"It was." She shifts her weight. "We should probably leave. All the sound had to have drawn someone's attention and the two of you probably aren't safe here."

Dean spears her with a look. "Why is that?" He asks, his tone neutral but with a suspicious undertone.

She meets his gaze evenly. "The thing about a dementor is that they don't attack in sprees like this. They don't attack random people." She lifts her chin. "Someone is sending it after people, and apparently they know who you are."

_____

As they relocate back to the Winchesters' motel room there are two separate but furious arguments within the confines of the two cars.

"There's something off about them, Sammy." Dean says, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Sam sighs, leaning back in his seat. "Off how? Like they're demons off or what?"

His brother shrugs. "No. I mean...they drank the holy water. I don't think they're demons, but there's still something weird about them. I mean…we saw that dude in the house earlier today. And we _heard _his voice right before that weird sound. He said 'Time to go' and then there was the pop and then the EMF freaked out. But they weren't in sight. And what's the bull crap about a demented or whatever—"

"Demen_tor_," Sam interjects with a wry grin. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, that. Have you ever heard of that before?"

Sam shifts a little. "No. But Dean, there's a ton of things out there that I've never heard of before. We can call Bobby later and see if he's ever heard of it."

"There's just something weird about them."

He looks at his brother. "What do you want to do about it, Dean? I mean, sure, they've probably got a lot of secrets. They're hunters."

Dean looks over at him. "So you think they're perfectly normal? For hunters, I mean?"

He hesitates, and then sighs. "No. There _is _something odd about them. But listen, Dean, they saved our asses. My instinct is telling me to trust them, at least for now."

Dean turns his attention back to the road, focusing on driving, but not before mumbling one last closing shot.

"Yeah, 'cause your instincts really work out for us all the time."

Sam glares at him, but doesn't rise to the bait.

_____

"No. Absolutely _not_, Jenn." RJ says, his voice firm and even.

Jenn folds her arms and raises her eyebrows, her body turned towards him. "How do you expect to explain the situation if you don't throw in that little detail of witches and wizards existing?"

"They _know _that witches exist. That's part of the bloody problem!"

She waves a hand. "They know that demon-worshipping sluts who call themselves witches exist. They don't know about the Wizarding World. At least, I assume they don't. I think if they did they would know what a dementor was and this whole thing would be a lot easier."

"They don't need to know about the Wizarding World. They're still muggles, even if they are hunters. God only knows what they'd do if they knew there was an entire magical world living right under their noses."

She frowns. "Spouting off anti-muggle propaganda now, RJ? I thought I knew you better than that."

He flinches and turns his head to scowl at her. "That was uncalled for."

She glares at him, challenging. "Was it?"

"Jenn…," he sighs. "Listen, I know that was a stupid excuse for not telling them—"

"Yeah, it was."

He glares her into silence and continues. "And it was unfair of me. But I am uncomfortable with telling two strangers—even if they are hunters, and maybe _because _they are—that the Wizarding World exists. They know that there are things out there, and they are predetermined, because of their profession, to think that all magic is evil. You know the first thing that they would do is try and shoot us—it's built into their instincts. I think it's an unnecessary danger."

"So what do you propose? That we lie to them? You can explain dementors to them without mentioning magic, sure, although I don't know how you're going to try and explain what drove it away—," her she smirks a bit smugly and he scowls, "but how are you going to mention that it's being controlled by a dark wizard?"

"They're probably used to occult magic—it's not that big of a stretch, Jenn."

She purses her lips. "And then what? We're going to have to use magic to find this bastard. How do you explain that? And he probably won't go down without a fight—are you going to let them go in there unprotected without a clue of what they're going to be facing? And what about when we use magic? Do you really want them to now know who is on their side in the middle of a fight?"

"We'll tell them that we know how to deal with a dementor. We don't need backup on this case, Jenn. We can handle it on our own."

"It's their case too. Do you honestly believe that they'll just pack up and leave?"

His fingers tighten on the wheel. "They will if we obliviate them."

For a moment there is complete silence. The car pulls to a stop outside of the motel and RJ parks it. He turns the engine off and then twists to face his wife. There is a cold, tight look on her face; he knows from the clenching of her jaw and the dangerous gleam in her eye that he's in trouble.

Then she slaps him. Hard. His face snaps to the side and red blossoms on his cheek. He stares at her, one hand rising to gently touch his skin. His forehead his furrowed and there is hurt in his eyes. She stares him down coldly, no mercy in her gaze.

"If the man I married is still in there somewhere, he'd better get his ass up here quick, because RJ is seriously starting to piss me off."

And with that she storms out of the car, slamming the door behind her. The car rocks from the force of the motion and RJ sits in the silence, words ringing in his ears.

_____

"Where's your husband?" Sam asks as Jenn breezes past him through the open door into the motel room. She doesn't even look back and her body is tight with tension.

"He's coming." She says, her voice cold and firm. Sam and Dean exchange glances behind her back, Dean cocking an eyebrow, Sam's forehead furrowing. A car door slams and a few moments later RJ walks up to the door. His shoulders are slumped, one cheek is bright red, and the glance he gives the two brothers is far less haughty and cold than it had been before. He chews on the inside of his cheek a little, his lips twisting as he walks into the room.

Sam closes the door and the four people turn to face each other. Dean heads for the chair by the window and plops down on it; Sam leans against the wall behind him. Jenn and RJ stand not completely on the other side of the room, but far enough away that they aren't in close proximity to the Winchesters. There is a distance between the two of them; Jenn turns her body slightly away from RJ and refuses to look at him.

Dean breaks the awkward silence first. "So…what the hell is a dementor?"

"It's a nasty creature," RJ says. "They feed off of positive emotions—happiness, love, hope—and they leave only negative emotions in their place. They spread misery and despair. You know there's one near when you feel the cold and when it seems like you'll never be happy again."

"What did they do to the six victims?"

Jenn shudders, her eyes closed. "It's called the Dementor's Kiss. It's the ultimate weapon of a dementor. It sucks out your soul. That's what happened to the six people. Physically, they're perfectly fine. But their souls are completely gone, and there's no way to get them back. Those six people are just shells now, and there's no saving them."

"What does a dementor look like?" Sam asks, his eyes intent.

Dean frowns. "The damn thing was invisible."

RJ shakes his head. "There are certain people who can see them. Tattered black robes, a black hood that covers the mouth—"

"And the mouth is just…ugh." Sam shudders and finds everyone in the room staring at him.

"Dude, you _saw _it?" Dean says, his forehead furrowed.

Sam shrugs. "Just before I passed out, yeah. It was creepy. Even having seen what we have."

RJ and Jenn exchange looks; Jenn raises her eyebrows in a quick, smug "when will you learn to listen to me?" gesture.

Sam fixes his gaze on RJ. "Right before I passed out I heard _you _shout something. It sounded like Latin but I was a little too busy to really analyze it." Here Dean snorts and then tries to look innocent when his brother shoots him a look. "And everything went silver. What did you do?"

RJ hesitates. Jenn's gaze is fixed on him, steady and firm, boring right into him with its weight. He shifts his weight, one hand sliding into his pocket to rest lightly on his wand. "The thing about dementors," he finally says, "is that there's only one real defense against them. It's a spell, called the Patronus Charm."

"You had time to set up a spell?" Sam asks, tilting his head to the side.

"It's not that kind of spell." RJ pulls his wand out of his pocket and holds it up. "Don't go grabbing for your guns and trying to shoot us as I try to explain this, okay? I'm a wizard and Ginny is a witch."

Both Winchesters immediately move for their guns, Dean throwing Sam a look. "I _told _you there was something off!" Dean has his up and his finger on the trigger as Sam scrambles to get on out of the duffle bag.

"_Expelliarmus. Petrificus Totalus." _Jenn says, firing off two beams. The spells fly across the room and strike the two men in the chest; Dean's gun flies into Jenn's hands and two men freeze, bodies stiffening immediately. They fall backwards. Dean hits the chair and remains partially upright; Sam falls to the ground with a thump.

"I believe I told you _not _to try and shoot us, didn't I?" RJ says, his voice mild.

"Look, guys," Jenn says, "you need to let go of the word _witch _as always meaning _demon-worshipping whore_. It's offensive, frankly. Neither RJ nor I are in league with demons or getting our power from them or anything like that. We're hunters, remember? Demons are just as much our enemy as they are yours. Now, I'm going to release you from the spell and we'll all sit down and talk like rational adults who have open minds about magic, okay?" She mutters the counter-curse and Dean is immediately on his feet, looking at them warily. Sam is also on his feet, rubbing the back of his head.

"Ow," he says, and Jenn suppresses a smile. "Okay, that was not normal witch behavior." He exchanges a look with Dean.

"So explain how you can be a witch and not be some demon's bitch at the same time." Dean says, arms folded. "And give me my gun back."

"Are you going to play nice?" He nods shortly and she crosses to hand him his gun back. He tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. "Witch is just a word for a female magic user. It's not our fault that those bitches use the same word to describe themselves. RJ and I are more of your traditional, fairytale witch or wizard. Sort of. Magic wand," she flourishes hers for effect, "cauldrons, flying broomsticks, that sort of thing."

"Our magic is purely determined by genetics," RJ adds. "It comes from inside of us, not from an outside source."

Sam's eyes narrow in thought. "Genetic magic…like a genetic mutation?"

RJ shrugs. "Possibly. Our culture isn't big on technology. They prefer to believe that magic can solve anything. I'm not even sure most witches and wizards know what genes _are_."

"There's more of you?" Dean asks. He's got one hand laying on the grip of the gun tucked into his waistband, but it's more of a reflexive motion than a threatening one.

Jenn nods. "There's an entire magical sub-culture. Most of the traditional Wizarding population is located in Europe, but each continent has its own population. We're actually not too far from one of the U.S.'s Wizarding world hotspots."

Sam's eyebrows rise and then he grins lopsidedly. "Really?" Jenn grins at him, nodding. Dean shoots him a questioning look and he laughs shortly. "Salem, Dean."

Dean's expression clears and he snorts. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Dean frowns. "Alright. Let's say we buy into this story. Believe that you're not the kind of witches we're used to. Prove it."

"How would you like us to do that?"

Dean spreads his hands in front of him. "You tell me. Prove it or you'd better start running."

Jenn gets a wicked grin and slyly points her wand at her husband. "You know those stories of witches turning people into frogs?" RJ's eyes go wide right before the purplish light streaks forwards and hits him. The light covers him and through it his form can be seen, rapidly shrinking, changing, transforming…and when the light fades there is a small green frog sitting on the ground. It croaks, and the sound is _not _happy.

Jenn smirks and twirls her wand in her fingers. "That's what you get for being such a git," she says to the frog, who croaks again. Sam and Dean look at her with wide eyes. She gives them a pointed look. "If either of you try to shoot me again, I'll turn _you _into frogs."

Frog-RJ makes a particularly loud croak, and is glaring as best he can in frog form. Jenn shakes her head and points her wand. In a matter of seconds the man is standing there again, rolling his shoulders and shaking his limbs out. He cracks his neck and glares at his wife. "Must you?"

"Must you be a git?" He crosses to her and touches her cheek lightly, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Yes," he says, but there is a cheeky grin on his face that lifts years from him. "But I'm sorry."

She rolls her eyes upwards, pretending to think, and then kisses him on the cheek. "I forgive you, love. Just remind me to slap you down every once in a while." She looks over his shoulder at the Winchesters. "Convinced?"

"For now," Sam says. "Clearly you _can _do magic, and it's not the same as other witches we've encountered. And since you claim you're hunters that puts us all on the same side." He looks at his brother. "So for now, why don't we just suspend our disbelief and work together?"

RJ smirks a little. "Well put."

Dean reclaims his seat and leans forward, rubbing his hands together. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way—dementors. How do you stop them and who the hell is behind the one attacking people?"

* * *

Remember that reviews are love. That little button is calling your name...listen to it. It says "_Review. Revieeeewww." _


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